


Desperado

by narcissablaxk



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Guitar-playing Johnny, M/M, Music, lawrusso, stage fright, the eagles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: Miguel finds out that Johnny can play the guitar, so they make a bet. If Johnny loses, he has to play his guitar in public, where people can see and hear him.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 9
Kudos: 257





	Desperado

**Author's Note:**

> All you really need to know going in is that Daniel and Amanda are separated, which is hinted at in the story, and the fight that Sam and Miguel had involving Robby never happened.
> 
> This was inspired by those pictures of William Zabka with his guitar, and also helped along by @StoryShark2005 and her wonderful suggestion that the song Johnny plays be "Desperado" by The Eagles.

He should have put that stupid guitar away. He knew that now, after the fact. But at the time, he wasn’t thinking about the sad, old, dusty acoustic sitting on the half-broken stand in the corner of his apartment; he was thinking that Miguel was chattering away behind him about some kick that he saw on that Tube website that he could never remember the name of, that he was going to drop the groceries in his hand if he didn’t open the door soon, and then he was in the cool darkness of his apartment and Miguel had stopped talking suddenly. 

“Oh, Sensei, that’s so badass, do you play?” 

He set the groceries down on the counter and furrowed his brow, his back to the living room and Miguel. “I don’t have any video games in here, Diaz,” he muttered, pulling bologna out of the reusable bag that Miguel finagled him into buying. 

“Not video games,” Miguel clarified, a laugh sneaking out, “I mean the guitar.” 

_Oh._ Johnny shrugged, tossing his six-pack of beer into the bottom shelf of the fridge. “Nope,” he lied, keeping his back to his far-too-perceptive student. “I don’t play that pussy shit.” 

“Okay, but you have a guitar, in your living room,” Miguel reasoned. “If you don’t play, why do you have it?” 

“Because it gets chicks,” Johnny replied. 

When he turned back, Miguel was looking at him with his eyebrows raised, doing the smile that Johnny enjoyed so much, with his lips pursed like he was scolding him, but mischief shining in his eyes. 

“Really,” Miguel said flatly. “You just have this guitar here because it gets chicks.” 

“Yep,” Johnny answered. “That’s it.” 

“So if a girl asks you play,” Miguel said slowly, as if trying to reason out the logic, “you just tell her that it’s there for decoration and she sleeps with you anyway?” 

“No,” Johnny said, exasperated, “of course I don’t, Diaz, if she asks me to play for her, I play for her.” 

“So you _do_ know how to play!” 

_Shit._

“I don’t know why you’re ashamed of it, Sensei, playing the guitar is awesome,” Miguel continued, and Johnny turned away from him again, going back to the kitchen. “I wish I knew how to play.” 

“Then take it,” Johnny said, waving his hand dismissively. “If I can teach myself, so can you.” 

“I’m not going to take your guitar, Sensei,” Miguel retorted lightly. “It’s yours. Besides, you clearly like it, or it wouldn’t be in your living room.” 

“It doesn’t fit in the closet,” Johnny sniped, but as usual, Miguel took his flat, dry response and turned it into something he could laugh at. “Seriously, Diaz, I don’t play.” 

Miguel narrowed his eyes at him. Johnny tried to read what was going on in his head by his expression, but found himself coming up empty. 

“Stop with the face,” Johnny said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but it’s not working.”

“I think you do play,” Miguel said, ignoring him. “I think you do play, and I think you’re probably good at it.” 

“I don’t and I’m not.” 

“Okay, sure, whatever,” Miguel raised his hands in mock surrender. “How about this: tomorrow, we spar at the dojo. If I land a point on you, you have to play at a place of my choosing.” 

Johnny clenched his jaw, trying to hide his grin. Diaz, land a point on him? Impossible. “And what do you have to do if I win?” 

“Then I have to read the poetry I wrote for Sam,” Miguel said. 

“Poetry?” Johnny repeated, “Come on, Diaz. Embarrassing.” 

“Equally as embarrassing as you’ll find publicly playing the guitar,” Miguel reasoned. “What’s the point of a bet if the consequences aren’t equal?”

“Okay, nerd, it this isn’t a math problem,” Johnny rolled his eyes good-naturedly. 

“So do we have a deal?” Miguel asked, holding out his hand for Johnny to shake. 

He eyed it for a moment, considering. 

“Come on, don’t be a…” Miguel trailed off, trying to think of a different word. “Wimp.” 

It was the hesitation that made the decision for Johnny. If the kid couldn’t say _pussy,_ he definitely couldn’t land a point on him. This would be easy pickings. 

“Fine, Diaz,” he said, shaking his hand. “It’s a deal.” 

***

Johnny knew, about ten seconds into the sparring session that would determine whether or not he was going to publicly humiliate himself that he was going to lose. There wasn’t a whole lot of evidence that he would inevitably lose, but he felt it, deep in his bones, all the same. He and Miguel bowed to each other, deep and respectful, and then stepped back, far enough away that they could have the time to block if necessary. 

Most of the students were crowded around the outside of the mats, on their knees, watching. He didn’t know if Miguel had explained the bet to them, but a couple of them (Aisha and Hawk, for example) were watching them with particular zeal that told Johnny that if not everyone knew, at least those two did. 

He waited until Miguel struck first, mostly because he wanted to give the boy an opportunity to show him that he’d learned the lessons Johnny taught. It was easy to block, dodge, and send his own blows back, that Miguel blocked with no trouble. 

The longer they went without landing any points, the more impressed Johnny was. Miguel shouldn’t be able to beat him – that much he knew with certainty – but he was good at mounting a solid offense and choosing when to momentarily switch to defense. 

He could see, in this fight, that what Miguel needed to be taught was how to capitalize on openings he created with his defense to land more efficient hits. He filed that away for a later lesson. 

And then Miguel dropped to one knee, turned, and kicked backward, the sweep that he had learned almost in the first month of their lessons (once they’d graduated to kicks), his foot landing squarely on Johnny’s chest. 

It wasn’t a painful kick, but he stood there, with his mouth open, all the same. It was almost impossible to complete that move without telegraphing – that was the whole reason why it was a basic move. Yet, Miguel hadn’t telegraphed anything; he’d moved so fast there was no way for Johnny to block before it was too late. 

“Oh my god, did I do it?” In the wake of his success, Miguel immediately lost his game face, reverting back to the soft-cheeked boy Johnny knew so well. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” He collapsed to the floor, looking up at Johnny with shocked glee.

“Believe it, Diaz,” Johnny said, offering him his hand to help him up. “Who taught you how to do that move?” 

Miguel’s bashful face told him all he needed to know. It was that damn LaRusso girl. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his favorite student. 

“Fine,” he said quietly, looking around to make sure no one else heard him, pulling Miguel away from the rest of the class, “I will play the damn guitar. But you are not allowed to bring the whole dojo to this thing. Just Aisha and Hawk. No other Cobras will hear of this, am I clear?” 

“Of course, Sensei,” Miguel beamed, his smile so bright Johnny had to look away. 

***

Fulfilling his end of this bet was going to be bullshit, Johnny thought, sitting on his couch with his guitar on his lap. He remembered countless songs, but none that he could play well – or rather, none that met his standards when people would hear him play it. He had no problem trying to stumble through some ACDC in the comfort of his apartment, where no one would hear him missing half the notes. 

But this was going to be _public._

He should have just told Diaz the reason he didn’t play the guitar was because of stage fright. But that wasn’t a very Sensei thing to say, now, was it? As Miguel’s Sensei, he was supposed to be fearless, scared of nothing, meeting challenges face-to-face. 

But still, there was something about playing music publicly that was far different than any other form of challenge. 

He remembered Sid shouting up the stairs, telling him to shut up while he was trying to practice, telling his mother that he wished her “tone deaf son” had picked something else to do with his time, that the music he played was going to drive him up the wall. He’d put down the guitar after that, only picking it up to fiddle with when Sid was out of the house, or at his mother’s behest. 

It was his mother that asked him to learn how to play the song that he remembered now, so suddenly and so completely that his fingers were already playing the notes, as if without permission. He could still play _this_ song. 

Maybe if he thought about his mother, this whole ordeal would be over faster. 

***

Daniel felt a little bit of sympathy for Sam, sitting beside him in the Audi with her arms crossed over her chest. After her involvement in a hit-and-run (that she had nothing to do with, she kept insisting), Amanda had demanded that she be grounded, whether she was with her mother (during the week), or with her father (on the weekends). 

But she had really wanted to come to this open mic thing, asking almost every day via text if he had thought about whether or not she could be released from her prison on good behavior, and if Daniel were honest, he was inclined to let her go. But then Amanda had heard about it, and she had called him (which was a rare thing, now that they lived in separate houses and shared their kids) and told him that if she wanted to go to this event so badly, then Daniel was just going to have to go with her. 

So here he was, ruining Sam’s chances for a fun date with Miguel, being probably the most unwanted third wheel in the history of the dating scene. 

“I promise I’m not going to embarrass you,” he told her. “I’m going to sit at the bar and ignore you and Miguel. When you’re ready to go, you let me know.” 

That seemed to appease her a bit. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, loosening her crossed arms. 

“Your mom should be easing up on this punishment thing soon enough,” he continued. “It’s been a few weeks already.” 

Sam rolled her eyes at the mention of Amanda. “I told her I’m not even friends with Yasmin anymore, and she doesn’t even care.” 

“She’s punishing you for keeping it from us, not for being friends with Yasmin,” Daniel pointed out. Sam glared at him. “Hey, I’m halfway on your side here, don’t direct the laser eyes at me!” 

The open mic was at some hipster coffee shop that somehow turned into a bar in the evening, and Daniel quickly found himself a spot at the far end of the bar, where he could see the stage, and whatever was going to happen on it, while being completely blind to whatever Sam and Miguel were doing at their own table, unless of course he turned his head to see. 

Which he definitely wasn’t going to do – more than once every half hour or so. 

He ordered himself a martini and sat at the bar, watching the performers, finding himself actually enjoying himself. A young woman with pink hair sang a song, accompanied on a ukulele, and another started a beat on his iPad and rapped along to it, improvising the lyrics as he went. Others read poetry, one did a weird contortionist act that made him want to drink himself stupid until he forgot it. He could hear Sam and Miguel clapping, whooping for acts they really enjoyed, and relaxed. If he looked out into the crowd, he could also see Aisha, sitting next to the boy he was pretty sure they called Hawk, with a huge mohawk that threatened to block people’s views if he turned at the wrong moment. 

And then the microphone stand was being switched for a different one, this one with two mics, one at about waist-height and one taller. It had been a while since the pink-haired girl with the ukulele went up, and if he were honest, Daniel wanted to hear her again. 

But it wasn’t a pink-haired girl with a ukulele that was walking up onstage. It was Johnny freakin’ Lawrence, with an acoustic guitar on a strap over his shoulder. 

This had to be a joke, right? He turned to the table with Sam and Miguel, and Sam was looking at him, her eyes wide. Miguel, beside her, looked thrilled. 

“Uh, hi,” Johnny’s voice had a shake to it that Daniel had never heard before, “My, uhh, student made me a bet, and if I lost the bet, I had to come up here and play this,” he indicated the guitar. “And I lost, so…” he trailed off, and Miguel whooped, enough that it startled a shy smile onto Johnny’s face, “I’m going to play a song.” 

“What’s your name?” someone in the crowd shouted. 

“None of your business,” Johnny dismissed him, pulling the guitar into his lap and shifting on the stool behind him so he was turned almost halfway to the audience.

“Whoo Sensei!” Miguel shouted, and Aisha and Hawk followed him. 

“Shut up,” Johnny muttered into the microphone, and Daniel smiled, the familiar ribbing somehow endearing when it was done here, when Johnny didn’t know he could hear him. 

And then he started playing, and Daniel recognized the melody. He huffed a laugh and motioned to the bartender for another martini. If he had been given a thousand guesses, he never would have guessed that Johnny Lawrence listened to The Eagles, much less that he knew their music well enough to play it on the guitar. 

But he was good, his fingers on the neck of the guitar nimble and sure, and Daniel was impressed, until he realized that Johnny was leaning forward toward the taller microphone, and he realized with a jolt that he was – holy shit – he was going to sing – 

“Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses –”

Daniel’s mouth went dry. He’d heard Johnny speak countless times – in fact, he’d argue he’d heard him speak too many damn times, but his singing voice – that was different. It was deep, low, soft, nothing like the Johnny Lawrence he knew. 

There was something about this song, or perhaps it was the way that Johnny was singing it, that sent an ache radiating through Daniel’s chest, the pain of loss, of nostalgia, of drifting. He swallowed more of his martini, his eyes locked on Johnny, who seemed, by contrast, determined not to look at anyone. 

He never thought Johnny could be shy about anything, but it seemed, again, he was wrong. He kept his eyes on something far away from this coffee shop-bar-thing, far away from the audience, far away from anyone. But he wasn’t looking at his hands, he wasn’t worried about missing any notes. 

“Dad – _whoa,_ calm down –” he hadn’t expected Sam to address him at all during her date, much less that she would choose now of all times. He jumped, almost knocking over his martini glass. “Did you know about this?” 

“Nope,” he said, even though he wanted to ask her why she’d think he knew anything about this, but that was just his Johnny-related paranoia coming up again, there when he least expected it. 

“He’s really good,” she said, pressing her hand onto the bar before pushing off and going back to Miguel. 

Yeah, he really was. 

***

“It may be raining, but there’s a rainbow above you. You better let somebody love you –” he hadn’t looked up during this entire ordeal, not once, and thinking of his mother, of the way she smiled when he played, was enough to carry him through, but he got sloppy. He knew he was close to the end, so he chanced a look at the crowd. 

And locked eyes with Daniel fucking LaRusso. 

“Let somebody love you –”

He was working on just muscle memory now, unable to tear his eyes away from LaRusso’s face. LaRusso, who gave him a smile, soft and full of longing and not at all what he expected to get – 

“You better let somebody love you before it’s too late.” 

The applause shook him out of whatever spell he was under, Miguel, Aisha, and Hawk’s the loudest, the most boisterous, so he gave them a nod before slipping offstage, thinking about how he was literally never _ever_ going to do something like that again. 

He could still feel the adrenaline when he put the guitar back in his car, with no case because he was pretty sure he was using it to hold all of his karate trophies back at home, thrumming through his veins and making his fingers unsteady. 

“The Eagles?” LaRusso’s voice wasn’t entirely unexpected, but Johnny tensed anyway, all of his nerves still tingling from playing. “Not what I would have expected.” 

He turned to see him, jeans and a sweater, sneakers and slightly ruffled hair in the wind, and felt like the air had been punched out of him again. “Be careful what you say about the Eagles,” he said noncommittally. 

“Why didn’t I know you played the guitar?” LaRusso asked, and he was leaning against the car now, his arms folded in front of him. “Or that you could sing?” 

“Because I can’t sing,” Johnny said dismissively. “And I don’t play the guitar.” 

“Okay, well then I just had one hell of a fever dream,” Daniel chuckled. After a moment, he said, “You were good, Johnny. Really good.” 

His initial response was to demur, to make an excuse, get in his car, and leave. But he was jittery, still, and he realized with renewed strength how scary playing music in front of people was. He opened the driver’s side door and sat on the edge of the seat. 

Before he could stop him, Daniel was slipping into the passenger side. 

“What are you doing, LaRusso?” Johnny asked, turning his legs into his car to see him better. 

“Sam is on a date with Miguel,” he explained. “I’m giving them as much privacy as I dare.” 

Johnny chuckled. “So that’s why you’re here? You didn’t stalk me or something?” 

Daniel scoffed, affronted. “Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my time than follow Johnny Lawrence.” 

“Sure you do.” 

“But I am glad I saw it,” Daniel said softly. “That seemed like an important song.” 

Johnny shrugged. “It was my mom’s favorite.” 

Daniel tutted at him like he didn’t believe that was all there was to it, but he didn’t press. Instead, he closed the passenger side door and leaned back against the headrest, the long column of his throat stretching out before him. Johnny tore his eyes away and looked forward. 

“You ain’t getting no younger,” Daniel said softly, the lyrics sounding far different when they were spoken rather than sung, “Your pain and your hunger, they’re driving you home –”

Johnny turned to him, catching his gaze in the failing light, just barely light blue from the neon light behind them. 

“Why are you here, LaRusso?” he asked. 

“I already told you –”

“But why are you here, in my car,” Johnny clarified, fear rising in him once again. “Because if you’re here to make fun of me or something, then you can consider it done and go –”

“Why would I do that?” Daniel asked. 

“You expect me to believe that bullshit about how you thought my playing was good?” Johnny asked. “Save it, LaRusso, I know it’s crap.” 

“Who told you that it’s crap?” Daniel asked, his brown eyes perceptive and piercing in the gloom. “Who said it, because it wasn’t me.”

He turned his eyes away, looking out onto the street. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a tired ache that he didn’t like, but he could feel Daniel’s gaze on the side of his face, and something about the challenge he knew he’d find in it gave him strength. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said finally, and Daniel reached over the middle console and took his hand, gentle but firm. 

“You’re one of the cockiest assholes I know,” he said, and Johnny laughed, a full and sudden laugh he hadn’t expected. Daniel continued, undeterred. “So I’m not going to give you a compliment I don’t mean. Trust me, I’ve thought about how huge your ego is going to get, I’ve calculated it, and I determined it was still worth giving.” 

“You’ll give me plenty of insults,” Johnny replied. 

“Yeah, because you deserve them,” Daniel answered. “I only dish what you deserve.” 

“You think you know what I deserve?” Johnny asked, turning back toward him. 

“I think I know better than most,” Daniel pointed out. 

“What do I deserve, then?” Johnny asked, his hand still tangled in Daniel’s, his eyes roaming over the shadows and planes of his face in the near dark. 

Daniel pulled him over to his side, turning to meet him with surprising agility. He gave him a gentle kiss, soft and tentative, and almost on the corner of his mouth, since Johnny was pulled over at an awkward angle. Still, Johnny let it happen, holding his breath, waiting for Daniel to pull back so he could shift in his own seat to get closer, pulling Daniel back to him by the back of his neck, catching his lips in a better seal. He let Daniel coax his mouth open, let him taste him. He could feel the shakes coming back into his fingers, the way they did right before he walked out onto the little stage. 

It amused him, to think that kissing Daniel LaRusso gave him the same terrifying adrenaline that he got when he had stage fright. 

“What are you chuckling about?” Daniel asked, pulling back and away, brown eyes huge in the darkness. 

Johnny pulled him back, closer, to he could nip at his neck. “Nothing, LaRusso, I’ll tell you later.” 

“Asshole,” Daniel muttered, but the word was breathless, and Johnny laughed against the soft skin of his neck. 

“Excuse me, I think you were in the middle of giving me what I deserve,” Johnny retorted, pressing his index finger into Daniel’s chest. “Don’t think I forgot.” 

And then Daniel’s phone pinged, loud in the relative quiet of the car, and Johnny reluctantly pulled back as Daniel glanced at the screen. 

“Sam is looking for me,” he said regretfully, leaning over to kiss Johnny on the mouth, a quick, familiar peck that warmed Johnny through like a shot of whiskey. “I’ll call you.” 

“Are you?” Johnny called as he slipped out of the passenger seat. “Or am I going to have to strike first?” 

“Shut up,” Daniel tossed back at him, and Johnny, because he was going to follow Daniel’s orders, didn’t tell him about the very endearing way his hair was sticking up at the back now. Let the genius LaRusso figure that one out on his own.


End file.
